One more look round the old room! The last for ever! The present overmastered the past, and he looked round almost without recognition. I doubt whether at great crises men have much time for recollecting old associations. I looked once into a room, which had been my home, ever since I was six years old, for five-and-twenty years, knowing I should never see it again. But it was to see that I had left nothing behind me.
The coach was at the door, and they were calling for me. Now I could draw you a correct map of all the blotches and cracks in the ceiling, as I used to see them when I lay in bed of a morning. But then, I only shut the door and ran down the passage, without even saying "good-bye, old bedroom." Charles Ravenshoe looked round the room thoughtlessly, and then blew out the candle, went out, and shut the door.
The dog whined and scratched to come after him; so he went back again.
The old room bathed in a flood of moonlight, and, seen through the open window, the busy chafing sea, calling to him to hasten.
He took a glove from the table, and, laying it on the hearthrug, told the dog to mind it. The dog looked wistfully at him, and lay down. The next moment he was outside the door again.
Through long moonlit corridors, down the moonlit hall, through dark passages, which led among the sleeping household, to the door in the priest's tower. The household slept, old men and young men, maids and matrons, quietly, and dreamt of this and of that. And he, who was yesterday nigh master of all, passed out from among them, and stood alone in the world, outside the dark old house, which he had called his home.
Then he felt the deed was done. Was it only the night-wind from the north that laid such a chill hand on his heart? Busy waves upon the shore talking eternally--"We have come in from the Atlantic, bearing messages; we have come over foundered ships and the bones of drowned sailors, and we tell our messages and die upon the shore."
Shadows that came sweeping from the sea, over lawn and flower-bed, and wrapped the old mansion like a pall for one moment, and then left it shining again in the moonlight, clear, pitiless. Within, warm rooms, warm beds, and the bated breath of sleepers, lying secure in the lap of wealth and order. Without, hard, cold stone. The great world around awaiting to devour one more atom. The bright unsympathising stars, and the sea, babbling of the men it had rolled over, whose names should never be known.
Now the park, with herds of ghostly startled deer, and the sweet scent of growing fern; then the rush of the brook, the bridge, and the vista of woodland above; and then the sleeping village.
CHAPTER XXIX.
CHARLES'S RETREAT UPON LONDON.
Passing out of the park, Charles set down his burden at the door of a small farm-house at the further end of the village, and knocked. For some time he stood waiting for an answer, and heard no sound save the cows and horses moving about in the warm straw-yard. The beasts were in their home. No terrible new morrow for them. He was without in the street; his home irrevocable miles behind him; still not a thought of flinching or turning back. He knocked again.
The door was unbarred. An old man looked out, and recognised him with wild astonishment.
"Mr. Charles! Good lord-a-mercy! My dear tender heart, what be doing out at this time a-night? With his portmantle, too, and his carpet-bag! Come in, my dear soul, come in. An' so pale and wild! Why, you'm overlooked, Master Charles."
"No, Master Lee, I ain't overlooked. At least not that I know of----"
The old man shook his head, and reserved his opinion.
"----But I want your gig to go to Stonnington."
"To-night?"
"Ay, to-night. The coach goes at eight in the morning; I want to be there before that."
"Why do'ee start so soon? They'll be all abed in the Chichester Arms."
"I know. I shall get into the stable. I don't know where I shall get. I must go. There is trouble at the Hall."
"Ay! ay! I thought as much, and you'm going away into the world?"
"Yes."
The old man said, "Ay! ay!" again, and turned to go upstairs. Then he held his candle over his head, and looked at Charles; and then went upstairs muttering to himself.
Presently was aroused from sleep a young Devonshire giant, half Hercules, half Antinous, who lumbered down the stairs, and into the room, and made his obeisance to Charles with an air of wonder in his great sleepy black eyes, and departed to get the gig.
Of course his first point was Ranford. He got there in the afternoon. He had in his mind at this time, he thinks (for he does not remember it all very distinctly), the idea of going to Australia. He had an idea, too, of being eminently practical and business-like; and so he did a thing which may appear to be trifling, but which was important--one cannot say how much so. He asked for Lord Ascot instead of Lady Ascot.
Lord Ascot was in the library. Charles was shown in to him. He was sitting before the fire, reading a novel. He looked very worn and anxious, and jumped up nervously when Charles was announced. He dropped his book on the floor, and came forward to him, holding out his right hand.
"Charles," he said, "you will forgive me any participation in this. I swear to you----"
Charles thought that by some means the news of what had happened at Ravenshoe had come before him, and that Lord Ascot knew all about Father Mackworth's discovery. Lord Ascot was thinking about Adelaide's flight; so they were at cross purposes.
"Dear Lord Ascot," said Charles, "how could I think of blaming you, my kind old friend?"
"It is devilish gentlemanly of you to speak so, Charles," said Lord Ascot. "I am worn to death about that horse, Haphazard, and other things; and this has finished me. I have been reading a novel to distract my mind. I must win the Derby, you know; by Gad, I must."
"Whom have you got, Lord Ascot?"
"Wells."
"You couldn't do better, I suppose?"
"I suppose not. You don't know--I'd rather not talk any more about it, Charles."
"Lord Ascot, this is, as you may well guess, the last time I shall ever see you. I want you to do me a favour."
"I will do it, my dear Charles, with the greatest pleasure. Any reparation----"
"Hush, my lord! I only want a certificate. Will you read this which I have written in pencil, and, if you conscientiously can, copy in your own hand, and sign it. Also, if I send to you a reference, will you confirm it?"
Lord Ascot read what Charles had written, and said--
"Yes, certainly. You are going to change your name then?"
"I must bear that name, now; I am going abroad."
Lord Ascot wrote--
"The undermentioned Charles Horton I have known ever since he was a boy. His character is beyond praise in every way.
He is a singularly bold and dexterous rider, and is thoroughly up to the management of horses.
"ASCOT."
"You have improved upon my text, Lord Ascot," said Charles. "It is like your kindheartedness. The mouse may offer to help the lion, my lord; and, although the lion may know how little likely it is that he should require help, yet he may take it as a sign of goodwill on the part of the poor mouse. Now good-bye, my lord; I must see Lady Ascot, and then be off."
Lord Ascot wished him kindly good-bye, and took up his novel again.
Charles went alone up to Lady Ascot's room.
He knocked at the door, and received no answer; so he went in. Lady Ascot was there, although she had not answered him. She was sitting upright by the fire, staring at the door, with her hands folded on her lap. A fine brave-looking old lady at all times, but just now, Charles thought, with that sweet look of pity showing itself principally about the corners of the gentle old mouth, more noble-looking than ever!
"May I come in, Lady Ascot?" said Charles.